


you know you're my saving grace

by stranded_star



Series: The Tattoo AU [3]
Category: Holy Trinity (YouTube RPF)
Genre: F/F, tattooooooooos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 20:52:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2887496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stranded_star/pseuds/stranded_star
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Grace discovers the scrawl of ink over Hannah's back and ribs and soft skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you know you're my saving grace

**Author's Note:**

> part iii of tattoo au. thanks for reading, lovely. wordharvest.tumblr.com

****   
Hannah’s apartment is surprisingly bare. 

She mumbles something about “fucking zen, Gracie” against her lips, but Grace is distracted by the way Hannah’s teeth tug at her bottom lip and the way her cool hands slip up under her sweater, catching at her ribs. Hannah’s pushing her back, lips running feverishly down her jaw to her neck, hot kisses causing an ache low in Grace’s stomach. 

She lets her head tip back, shivering the soft flicker of Hannah’s tongue against her collarbone; her hands rest on Hannah’s hips, gripping the fabric as if it were a lifeline. She has to remind herself, every time her skin touches Hannah’s, that this is good, and right, and real, because more than anything this feels like a dream. Or a strange prolonged fantasy, where she falls in love with a girl she knew from a past life, where each moment feels like remembering. 

Grace tells herself it isn’t love, not yet: not love, when Hannah bought her coffee and surprised her on her doorstop with a crooked grin; not love, when they walked the entire Highline on Christmas Eve, arms linked, Hannah making up history about the freights on the river; not love, when they Skyped while Grace was at her parents’ place, commiserating over the godawful questions from relatives. 

Especially now, with Hannah’s fingers painting electricity over her skin, she thinks not love, because love is great and vast and overwhelming, and Grace is so small, in comparison. 

“You’re thinking.” Hannah’s whisper is hot against her ear. “You sure you wanna do this now?” 

As a response, she pulls off her sweater and cups Hannah’s face gently, pressing a kiss to her nose, just above the tiny stud. Hannah smells sweet, like lemons and green tea; Grace smooths her blue hair back, tucks it behind her ear. 

“I’m sure.” Hannah’s eyes are so, so round, eyelashes blinking hard in her attempt not to look down. A giggle rises in Grace’s throat, catching in affection. She leans forward, lips brushing the soft lobe of Hannah’s ear. 

“You can look, you know.” Her tongue flicks over the steel gauge. “And touch.” 

Hannah groans, soft and sweet: her hands come up to the curve of Grace’s waist, dancing around to trace the notches in her spine. She looks. 

Grace thinks that this must be what it feels like to be a temple, for the light in Hannah’s eyes tastes like worship. 

****

The moments leading up to Hannah’s skin in black satin feel hazy. 

Grace’s legs are shaking relentlessly, when Hannah takes her by the hand and leads her to her room, so, as Hannah is wont to do, she guides her, pushing her to the bed. Grace leans back, stretch of her throat long for Hannah to kiss as she crawls over her. She can feel Hannah’s fingers pulling at the button of her shorts, breath warm - her hand goes to Hannah’s, stilling her tremble. 

“Let me.” 

She tugs at Hannah’s hips, trading places - she wants, suddenly, overwhelmingly, to be the one in control. She thinks back to when Hannah took her hand for the first time, the way her touch felt like fire, like it would consume her. Grace thinks, that if Hannah pressed her into the sheets and ran her tongue down the ridges of her body, she would turn to ash. 

So she pulls down her shorts, peels off the woolen tights. When she stands, she thinks of nakedness, of what it means to trust another to look upon you and feel awe. And it’s this, the openness of Hannah’s blue eyes, their honesty as they drink in the expanse of her body, that make her trust enough. 

“Let me undress you.” Her whisper feels so loud in the still space. Hannah nods, her knuckles white as they grip the bed corners. Grace steps in between her legs, runs fingers through her messy blue hair and down to her tank top, pulling it up and over her head. The fabric catches on the hoops lining her ears, and Hannah laughs shakily. 

“Are you usually this nervous?” Her fingers move to the buckle of Hannah’s belt, letting her thumbs run over the soft skin near her belly. 

“No.” Hannah exhales. “You’re just - really fucking beautiful.” 

“I like the way you say that - like you actually thought about it.” Grace tugs on her worn black jeans, asking. Hannah lifts her hips, letting her slide them off, and when she pushes them to the side, she drops to her knees, pulling off Hannah’s socks. A kiss, to the inside off her knee. 

“Not super sexy, old socks.” 

Grace looks up to meet her eye. “Hannah - trust me, you don’t have to worry about sexy.” 

Her fingers come up, running over the delicate strands of dots wrapping around Hannah’s calves. Tracing a question. Hannah smiles, turning her leg just so to reveal two bees in the scoop of her knee. 

“Is that - is that because you’re the bee’s knees?” 

“Mmm.” Hannah’s grin is wicked. “Because puns.” 

 

“Oh god.” Grace lets her hands slide up her thighs, which are milky pale and untouched. Hannah pushes her hair back, letting her fingers linger in the long curls. There is something terribly intimate about Hannah pressing her close, Grace’s lips ghosting over her skin - so near to the heat beneath black satin. There are theater masks on her hip bones, and Grace pulls the fabric down to see. 

“Never pictured you as a theater girl.” 

“I wasn’t.” Hannah bites her lip, bringing up Grace’s chin. “But I was sixteen and feeling lost and I liked the contrast. And I had a bit of a thing for Shakespeare. 

“With tattoos, you have to be willing to see them as art even when you’ve changed. I like looking back at them and remembering who I was then, because how else would I remember?” 

Grace looks at her steadily, and Hannah blushes. “It makes me feel like art.” 

“I want to see. All of them. If you don’t mind, first?” She bends down, dropping a kiss on warm silky fabric. 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. But only,” her breath hesitates as Grace slithers up, lace catching on skin, “if you stop doing things like that.” 

She grins, hands coming up to trace over the thorny vines that wrap around Hannah’s ribs and curl up under her breasts. Her lips press kisses to their soft undersides as she reaches around, unhooking and pulling, tongue tracing her pert nipple before running over the play and pause in black. 

“Fuck.” Hannah is back on her elbows, eyes closed, and Grace is looming like the sun. Inescapable. “That’s my first one, you know. A reminder.” 

“Yeah?” Grace strokes up the cherry blossoms floating up her right arm, dusting the corner of her collarbone with splashes of color. There are book pages cascading down her left, and Grace wonders if they have tiny print, if she could spend hours reading them. If it would mean reading Hannah, in her most secret parts. 

“To know when to stop and when to go for it.” Hannah’s voice is trembling. Skin upon skin upon skin. 

“Mmm. Can you turn over?” 

*** 

Hannah’s back is beautiful. Of course, Grace’s eyes catch the ridges of her shoulder blades and feminine curve of her spine, but it’s the pattern of ink spreading across her back that makes her breath seize in her throat. Feathers sprout from her shoulders, flicking up in a spray of brown and gray. 

“Wings.” 

“Wings,” Hannah echoes. “Don’t we all want them.” 

There’s sadness in her voice, so Grace moves to the iris growing up her neck. “This is pretty.” 

“I got it when I went to France before college - tagged along with a few friends, working on a farm in Provence. Iris means rainbow in Greek - I figured it would be a little less subtle than getting GAY across my neck in caps.” 

“I like it. Surprisingly girly, Hart.” 

“Yeah, well, I don’t let just anyone see them, so.” 

Grace’s heart throbs, painfully sweet, and strokes downward. There’s a tremendous tree growing down the center of her spine, its roots sprawling down to creep beneath the edge of her underwear. The colors are shades of black and green, achingly detailed. 

“It’s a Douglas fir. The tree. My good friend did it back in Oregon, when I was staying with my folks there.” Hannah’s head is resting on her hands, facing away, but Grace wonders if her eyes are starry with tears. “I liked it a lot. I’d like to take you one day, maybe.” 

“I think…that would be lovely.” Her voice is a whisper as she bends, resting her chin on Hannah’s shoulder near the brush of her hair to her neck. “You’re really - really fucking beautiful, too, you know.” 

Hannah turns, and their lips meet. “There are two more big ones. I think - you know how you were forced to take art class in like, freshman year of high school? And there was maybe one piece you really liked, and you couldn’t figure out when you wanted to stop because if you kept going you’d ruin it, but if you didn’t you might never realize its full potential?” 

Grace laughs. “I think that’s just you.” 

“Well, that’s my body. That’s what it feels like. I think I’m getting close though.” 

Grace sits back, again, looking down. She sees delicate moon cycles down the right and kanji down the left, and she traces the Japanese characters carefully. She senses that Hannah would get the Japanese right, that it’s not simply “happiness” or “prosperity” or even “grace.” So she asks. 

“It’s a haiku, by Bashō. I got his collection of Japanese death poems in Japan…I remember thinking, if anyone understands what life feels like, it’s him. I don’t know. Morbid, kind of, but it didn’t feel like it at the time.” 

“What’s it say?” Her fingers brush lightly. 

“Roughly translated? Eh… ‘Twilight whippoorwill…/Whistle on, sweet deepener/Of dark loneliness.’”

“That’s…a bit sad.” 

“I know. It’s - it’s what felt right at the time. Maybe I’ll tell you about it, later.” 

“Okay.” Her voice is just a breath, ghosting between them. Every limb is aching, with want and heat and affection. Not love, not love, not love.

Hannah turns beneath her. She’s not sure if she’s witnessed nakedness in anyone’s eyes before, but there’s nothing else to describe the trust in Hannah’s irises. Grace sees all of her, the bare skin and the flood of color and the metal that hardens her. She sees the way it must have felt, to feel alone and want something more than what life gives. 

She bends and kisses and their bodies feel warm, light flooding the window over the tangle of skin and hair and legs. Dream-like, the softness of Hannah’s lips and the sweetness of her taste. Everywhere drawing her, like a magnet. 

Not love, perhaps, but gravity - certainly. 

*** 

fin


End file.
